Our eyes joined in the rearview mirror.

He said, “I know you, bud?”

“You did,” I said.

Quiet, he was trying to figure it out.

“Been fifty years,” I said.

He looked again in the mirror, “Yeah, well, nobody calls me Mikey anymore. Name’s Mike.”

“Mikey to me,” I said, smiling.

Finally, he said, “Help me here, fella. I know you from court, from jail?”

“Might say that.”

Again, he was quiet.

“Fifty years…,” he said, then looked in the mirror. “Johnny? Johnny Rondell?”

“Right.”

“Fuck me.”

“Been a long time,” I said. “Jesus, Mikey, nobody calls me Johnny anymore. It’s John.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, a wide, toothless grin staring back at me in the mirror. “Johnny to me.”

“OK, Johnny, it is.”

“Read about you in the papers,” he said. “Lawyer or something, in the city, right?”

“Yeah, was.”

“Retired?”

“Might say that.”

“Johnny Rondell, New York City lawyer, holy shit.”

There it was. That queasiness in the pit of my stomach any time I heard ‘Johnny’ and ‘lawyer’ in the same sentence.

As John J. Rondell, criminal defense lawyer, on occasion, I might hear ‘Hey Johnny’ echoing down some courthouse hallway, always, every time, the voice of some ghost from the past. Despite my success, I would find myself embarrassed, standing in a suit, holding a briefcase, feeling, I didn’t measure up. There would be a pathetic attempt to degrade myself, talking the language of the street, bringing up a few stories of teenage valor from back in the day. Inevitably, after the excitement, there was the moment I could see that flicker in their eye, the moment when they were asking themselves, ‘Was he ever one of us?’

Changing the subject, I said, “How’d you end up in East Hampton?”

“Easy. It’s where the money is. I’m a carpenter, or I was.”

“Retired?”

“Got hurt a few years ago. Now I get disability, drive a cab. Tips are good, no headaches.”

“Nice.” I said.

Driving to Riverhead to find a hotel, we weaved our way through the back roads of Sag Harbor, Southampton, and Hampton Bays, avoiding the summer traffic on Montauk Highway, catching up on a half century of life, focusing on the good, avoiding the bad.

Eventually, we arrived at the Flanders Motel.

“Here we are,” Mikey said.

It was worse than expected. Disabled cars, a broken Weber grill, laundry hanging outside half-open doors.

I said nothing.

“Man, you can't stay here,” Mikey said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Can’t say I disagree.

“Come over to my place,” Mikey said, turning his head to look at me for the first time. “Stay as long as you like. I have a place on the beach.”

“Really? You live on the beach?” I said, unable to soften my skepticism, considering he lived off disability, was missing teeth, and driving a cab.

It didn’t seem to bother him.

“Not what you think,” he said. “I live in a camper, it’s an RV. There’s a whole bunch of us at the camp.”

“Camp?” I said.

“Yeah, we have rules, we have a government, pay dues. I’m the mayor.”

“Where?”

“East Hampton, over on the beach in Amagansett.”

“I see,” I said, trying not to betray any concern in my voice.

“Neighbors are none too happy.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been fighting like hell with them. We block their view of the ocean,” Mikey said, smiling. “You know what I mean?”

A camp. On the beach. In Amagansett.

I knew.

“It’s not a problem for me to stay?” I said.

“It’s an RV. It doesn't run, but I got electric and air-conditioning.”

“All right then,” I said, trying to organize the flood of thoughts in my head.

“Got a dog. As long as you aren't allergic, stay as long as you need.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “It’s only one night. I need to get back to the city.”

Mikey continued. “Everyone at the camp works. Well, most do anyway. We have a section for retired people who go back and forth to Florida. We got some teachers, a lot of tradespeople, plumbers, carpenters, electricians. There’s a group of day laborers from south of the border.”

I knew most of that.

“Tell me more about the camp,” I said. “How many people?”

“One-hundred-ninety-eight. The health department said we had to keep it under two hundred.”

“What about the winter?”

“Quiets down, but not much. Tent people go first, but most people stay. You know, work doesn’t stop in the winter, Johnny.”

“And it’s on the beach?” I said, confirming my suspicion.

“Down next to Truck Beach. Where the locals hang out in the summer with their trucks.”

And I knew that too.

We got onto Sunrise Highway heading back to East Hampton.

“Johnny, didn’t you live out in East Hampton? You got sent to a convent, right?”

“A boys' group home.”

“Yeah, but it was a convent once, right? What was it called?”

“St. Mary’s.”

“Get this, Johnny, the camp, it’s right where the convent used to be.”

“Seriously?” I said, trying to sound surprised.

“Convents gone, you know, burned down years ago, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

But I did know that. I knew all about it. I knew about the convent burning down, I knew about the camp and the hundreds of squatters living there, I knew about their fight with the Town and the neighbors.

Running into Mikey, that was unexpected.

“You’re going home, brother," Mikey said.

“Tell me about the camp.”

“It’s been around for years. It was part of the convent.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Did some research over at the County Center. Migrant workers came up every year, worked in the vineyard. Did you know the nuns used to grow grapes and make their own wine?”

“I heard that.”

“Well, they needed a place for the workers to live, and they owned all this property down near the beach. There were a few shacks around, they would come up, stay with their families, go back home in the winter. Eventually, in the 1950s, New York State comes in, says, ‘You can’t have this here camp.’ You know, regulations and everything. So, the nuns cut a deal. They signed away any development rights on the camp, and the state agreed to let the camp stay. That’s twelve acres along the beach, Johnny, can't be developed. But everything's got to be temporary, you know, tents, campers with wheels, trailers. Can't bang a nail down there without the Town coming in and threatening to shut the place down.”

I understood all of that.

“The camp was for the workers, you see,” Mikey said. “Just like us, people who got to work.”

“Yeah, but the convent’s gone, so is the vineyard,” I said.

“You don’t understand, Johnny. It’s in the deeds, looked it up, nothing the Town can do about it.”

He continued, “There’s only one rule. Once a year, everybody has to move out for twenty-four hours. We drag everything out to Montauk Highway, move back in the next day.”

“And the Town is OK with that?”

“Oh, not at all. They’ve been looking for any reason to shut us down. They do inspections every week. But we run a tight ship. Like I said, I’m the mayor. Not really elected, but everyone sort of agrees.”

“Who would have thought, right?” I said, smiling.

“We got camp committees that police the camp, keep it clean. People pay dues, we have regular sanitation, got plumbing, and electric. It’s all camp style, it’s not much, but it works. Remember, most of the folks down there are in the trades, we get free labor.”

“I see.”

“You see Johnny, there’s rules. Don’t keep up your shit, forget to pay your dues, maybe you start bringing around people, don’t belong, we take a vote, kick you out. Good government in action.”

“Any idea who owns it?” I said, certain at this point, he didn’t.

“Some LLC in the city, they pays the taxes. You have to understand, Johnny, it’s not much, the property is worthless. You can't build nothing on it.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“Oh, they want us gone. They call the cops all the time.”

“I see.”

“Here we are,” Mikey said. “Bring back any memories?”

“Sure does,” I said, leaning over the seat to get a better look at the two stone pillars marking the entrance to the convent property just off Montauk Highway. As we drove past, I could see the long gravel driveway marked by a series of chestnut trees on either side. The main convent building at the end of the driveway, no longer there, was replaced by a series of unremarkable sand dunes.

Halfway along, we pulled to the side, in front of a narrow road flanked by a small wooden shed with a horizontal pole blocking our path. An old man and a dog appeared from behind the shed and approached the cab.

“How you doing Mike?” The old man said.

“Good Skipper. All quiet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Skipper, this is an old friend. They call him Johnny.”

The old man looked at me, suspicious. He said nothing.

“Skipper keeps an eye on things," Mikey said.

“Hear anything?” Skipper said.

“No,” Mikey said. “You?”

“Nope. Few drunks, making some noise. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Good.” Mikey said, “Let me know you hear anything.”

The old man shuffled over to the gatehouse, pulled the chain, the post went up.

As we drove along the road, Mikey said, “We’re down between the sand dunes. It’s in a hollow. We can't even see the neighbors.”

The road was tightly bordered by tall beach grass and sand dunes, an occasional scrub oak tree here and there. We went past a few cars with small tents set up next to them, eventually, several pick-up trucks with larger camper trailers, and a few RV’s. Most were in relatively good shape.

There were young children and loose dogs running about, people were sitting in beach chairs, talking and laughing, party lights strung about. Everybody waved at the cab as we drove past. It was a festive atmosphere.

“They’re homeless?” I said.

Mikey stopped the cab. He turned to face me, “Not homeless, they just can't afford to live here.”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

“You do understand, Johnny, this is one of the wealthiest places on planet earth.”

I didn’t respond.

We continued driving. “It’s all Wall Street money. Hamptons is like a piggy bank. They hide their fortunes out here in real estate. It’s all about real estate. Everybody works in real estate. Do you know, most of these houses sit empty most of the time? Not a person around. Empty fucking shells. Ten, fifteen, twenty thousand square feet of nothing. And yet, we have this here camp, people and kids and old people living in tents because they got no place to go.”

“Got it.”

“These people are here because they got to be here. They have to work.”

“I can see that.”

“Here we are,” Mikey said, as we pulled up to a large RV, it’s flattened tires settled deep into the sand, a striped awning, torn and threadbare, in front. There was a small hand-painted sign that said ‘Town Hall’. A small dog ran up to the rear of the cab, wagging its tail.

“That’s Florence,” Mikey said, nodding at the dog. “Grab your things, come inside. I’ll turn on the air-conditioner.”

I grabbed my roller bag, and as I dragged it across the sand, a half-empty pint bottle of vodka fell to the ground. I snatched it up and put it back in the bag, not before Mikey noticed.

“Small bottle drinking these days?”

“For the train ride,” I said, avoiding eye contact.

Inside the RV, it was dark and dated, but relatively clean. Mikey explained there was a convertible bed where the dining table currently was.

“You got a change of clothes? He said. “I’ll show you where you can clean up.”

“Just a suit.”

“Well, that’s not going to do at the beach.”

Mikey walked over to a set of drawers, took out a pair of shorts and tie-died t-shirt, which he handed to me. “Lose those jeans and flannel shirt, man. That’s not for the beach. What size shoe?” he said, nodding at my feet.

“Thirteen.”

“Try these sandals, eleven and a half.”

Living in the city the last thirty years, I was never a beach guy, I hated the sand, never wore sandals or shorts, definitely not into tie-dye t-shirts. But I took them, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

“Come on, I’ll show you where you can clean up.”

Outside, he led me down a path to the camp showers, nothing more than colorful sheets hanging across old phone booths, the doors removed. Plumbing was rough, water was plentiful, and hot enough. After showering, I changed into the shorts, t-shirt, and sandals.

“Let’s take a walk over to the beach,” Mikey said.

We passed more tents, campers, and RVs. Everyone greeted Mikey and his dog, calling him ‘Mr. Mayor.’ He seemed to enjoy himself.

“Why do they come here?” I said. “I mean, there are other places up island. What about Riverhead, it has to be more affordable than the Hamptons.”

“Trade parade.”

“What?”

“The trade parade, man. Every morning, they come, in vans and trucks and cars, thousands of them. Remember Johnny, there’s only two roads to get out here. Traffic backs up for miles. People sit in traffic, three, maybe four hours, just to get to work. If there’s an accident, you could sit there all day. Every fucking day they do this. Know why?”

“I don’t know, because this is where the money is,” I said.

“Right.”

He continued, “You got to have an understanding of these rich folks who live out here. They don’t like to wait, not for nothing. And they have to have the newest thing, the biggest house, the nicest car, the fanciest pool, the greatest landscaper, on and on it fucking goes. It’s never enough for them.”

I was quiet. I listened.

“But, they’ll pay. They’ll pay whatever the fuck to get what they want.”

He continued, “There’s good fucking money to be made out here, Johnny. People just can’t afford no place to live.”

“I understand. It’s expensive.”

“Think on it, man, you’re working all day, digging dirt, banging nails, washing dishes, cleaning houses, eight, ten hours, and then what? You have to get home. These people out here don’t want you around. They don’t want to see you. So, what do you got? Two, maybe, three hours, just to get home. Sucks, man, but they do it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You know, sometimes, people just park on the side of the road, go to sleep, just so they can be here in the morning.”

‘Really?”

“Yeah, man. They sleep in parks and shopping centers.”

“I didn’t know that.”

You're a lawyer, Johnny. You hear the court said it’s OK to arrest people for being homeless?”

“I did. Supreme Court.”

“They’ve been doing that shit out here for years. East Hampton cops will yank you out of your car and take you to jail. At least it’s a place to sleep.”

Mikey continued, “Johnny, I got a waiting list. Can you believe it, a waiting list just to get in the camp? People contacting me every day, begging for a space, anything, even a little parking spot, just so they can sleep, not get arrested.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Here we are,” he said.

We were standing on the top of a sand dune. On the other side was the Atlantic Ocean, separated by a broad white sand beach that appeared to stretch for miles in both directions. The beach was empty, except for a billboard-sized sign, in bold red letters that said, ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO TRESPASSING – Violators will be arrested’.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Mikey said, nodding at the sign.

“Neighbors?” I said.

“Right. They own the beach now. Put these signs up last summer.”

“I didn’t think anybody could own the beach,” I said.

“Yeah, I thought so too. Some kind of lawsuit. Court said it’s their beach. Locals are really pissed. They can't go down there with their trucks anymore. I mean, it is called Truck Beach.”

“So, no one is allowed on the beach?”

“Not everybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“Local fishermen say there’s a thing in the homeowner's deeds, a reservation or something, says they're allowed to go down there if they’re fishing.”

“I never heard of this.”

“Well, you ever heard of the Bonackers? They’ve been fishing on this beach, more than three hundred and fifty years. Old fisherman in town figured some shit out about the deeds, now all the trucks are coming back.”

“Who’s the fisherman?”

“Stuart King.”

“I know Stuart,” I said. “It’s his funeral I'm going to tomorrow.”

“Sorry to hear that. Friend of yours?”

“I worked the beach on his fishing crew back in the day, when I lived here.”

“Well, nobody paid much attention until the homeowners put up boulders at both ends of the beach last summer, after the court ruling.. Blocked any access by trucks.”

“How do they get down there?”

“They come through here, through the camp,” Mikey said, nodding at deep grooves in the sand leading down to the beach. “First, we let the Bonackers come through, now everybody is coming. Stuart King said, throw a fishing pole in your truck, say your going fishing.”

“And the neighbors?”

“Oh, man, mad as hell. They wanted us gone before. Now, they’re really pissed at us.”

I looked around at the sand dunes, then out towards the beach and the crashing surf, feeling myself pulled back decades to another time.

“Remember that night in the Terminal?” Mikey said.

“Sure do.”

“You pulled me out of there. You saved me, man.”

I was quiet.

“You taught me how to fight, Johnny, how I should stand up for myself.”

“Funny,” I said. “You taught me how to avoid getting in fights, how to get along. Remember Mikey’s Rules, and how to talk shit? You remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I thought you were full of shit.”

“Can't believe you remember that,” Mikey said.

“You were right, Mikey. I still think about those rules, about how to say the right thing at the right time. Avoid fights if you can, stay out of trouble. Made me a better lawyer.”

“No shit? Advice from Mikey?”

“I seem to have forgotten recently.”

“So, what happened?” Mikey said. “I really figured you’d be the one in prison, not me. You were bad back then. Look at you now.”

“I got lucky, Mikey.”